


Duxford Air Museum.

by orphan_account



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2194242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Martin visits Duxford Air Museum lots of times in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first time.

His dad took him the first time. He was eight years old.

"There's a museum... just about planes?" he'd gaped.   
"Yes." smiled his dad. "Lots."  
"Can we go, please, please, can we go, can we go now, please?"  
"Not now."  
He knew his dad could not be argued with, but he also knew he was a straight talking man. If he'd meant 'no', he'd have said 'no'. 

And sure enough, a few weeks on, they stepped off the bus, Martin quivering with excitement in his smartest outfit.  
The man on the door nodded at the pair as his dad guided him in, holding firmly to his hand for fear he'd run away, which actually was a fairly rational fear in this place.  
Martin wanted to spend hours staring at all the exhibits, every part, notice, outfit, plane... Several times he'd caught his son reading the information. Actually reading the information. To the end. In a museum. As a child. Plus, he'd never even tried to touch anything. He shook his head. There was something seriously wrong with that kid.  
But it was the final exhibit that really made his eyes light up. A real, full size, working Tiger Moth. He stretched out over the balcony as far as his legs would lift him to get closer to the plane.  
A man a little way along looked at the wonderstruck child and chuckled, creasing his face in places that would forever remain creased.  
"Beautiful, isn't she?"  
Martin jumped at the unexpected voice, which nearly sent him tumbling over the rail. His dad zoomed in and caught him before he could fall.  
"Hello," he said, forgetting to acknowledge his dad, "who are you?"  
He chuckled again, and drew himself up tall.  
"I," he announced, in the sort of quiet loudness that can silence a room instantly, "am the curator."  
"But what-" frowned Martin, but his dad looked at his watch then, and noticed they were just about to miss the bus.  
"C'mon, little guy. Time to go home."

On the way, he looked at his son with concern. Today, he'd realised quite how much planes meant to him, and it was scary.  
"You do know, right, that it's all... Y'know, aeroplanes and that, it's just... well... it's, like, a fantasy, right?"  
"What do you mean, dad?"  
"I mean, like, you're not... you're never actually gonna get to-"  
But the happiness on the boy's face had fallen so rapidly into bleak apprehension that he didn't feel he could do it.  
"Never mind. Forget I said anything."  
Another time. He'd do it another time.  
And he didn't mention it when he saw Martin with a dictionary half his size on his lap, staring in amazement at the description he'd found three twenty-sixths of the way through.


	2. The many times after that

Dad wouldn't take him next year, and mum wouldn't let him go on his own.  
"How can you do this?!" he'd screamed. "How can you show me beauty and keep me from it?! It's not fair!"  
"It's too long a walk, and you're too young. You could ask Simon to take you."  
Simon wouldn't take him.  
"I'm nearly ten!" he'd shouted, slamming the door on his way out.

That Christmas, he got a bike. At first, he didn't care. Bikes were boring. Why didn't anyone get him a plane? But then, he remembered what mum had said.  
'It's too long a walk, and you're too young.'  
He was ten now, and the bike, the bike!

Next day, he was about to rush into the kitchen to ask, but he heard his parents talking in serious voices.  
"I just worry about it."  
"Why? It's fine, Alan, really."  
"It's not healthy. He's ten years old for God's sake."  
"Well, Simon liked trains for a long time, didn't he?"  
"Not this long."  
"It's just a phase. He'll grow out of it eventually, you'll see."  
He briefly wondered who they were talking about, the lightly pushed the door open.  
"Oh, little Martin, hello-"  
"Mum, mum, can I go to Duxford Air Museum on my bike? Please mum, please can I, please?"  
"May I." she corrected him.  
"Sorry, mum. May I go to Duxford Air Museum on my bike? Please mum, please may I, please?"  
She exchanged a look with dad over his head, but he didn't know what it meant.  
"Yes, okay. But after lunch."  
All through lunch he was squirming, trying to leave the table, until eventually he was allowed out.

So he buttoned up the yellow waterproof that was a little to big for him, pulled on the stripy woollen hat his grandma made him, jumped on the bike and was off.  
Down past the butcher's, who yelled at him as he passed.  
Down past the baker's, whose son threw him a roll. (It didn't land anywhere near his basket, but it was the thought that counted.)  
Down past old Pat's house, where he gave her a wave.  
Down past little Meg's house, where he blew her a kiss.  
Down past Pete's farm, where the farmhands shouted his name.  
And at last to Duxford Air Museum.

He chained his bike up to the rack, and the man on the door gave him a nod.  
The exhibits remained unchanged, but that didn't stop him enjoying them just as much.  
He read all the notices again, right the way through. And it was better this time, because he had longer. He could stay and look at one thing for as long as he liked, which was a long, long time.  
But the one thing he really wanted to see again was the Tiger Moth.

He leaned right over the rail again, and this time he could reach a little farther.  
He heard a familiar chuckle to his right. He turned to see that man again.  
"One day," he told Martin, "you'll be able to touch her from here."  
"Mr curator sir!"  
He laughed again.  
"No need to call me sir, young lad."  
"Sorry, sir-um.."  
"Where's your dad?"  
"Not today, si- Mr curator."  
They stood in silence for a while, just gazing at the plane.  
"Yes."  
"What?"  
"Yes she is, sir. Beautiful. You asked me. Two years ago."  
"Ah, yes. Of course."  
"My favourite, I think."  
"As she is mine."  
"Do you really get to pick all the exhibits?"  
"Oh, yes. That's why I chose this one."  
And they stayed there, for a long time, pointing out details, with the odd scornful 'any eight year old could tell you that' from Martin. They discussed what it would be like to fly her, how she was built, everything, everything.

Eventually, Martin realised he was going to be late for tea, bade the curator goodbye, and pedalled off home.

But every year after that, always, he'd cycle down to Duxford Air Museum, and talk and talk and talk.


	3. Vic

He was fourteen the first time he saw Duxford as a date. 

It hadn't been long after 'that' party that Victor Hesslington began flirting with him at school.  
At first he'd been glad of the attention, relieved to know the events of 'that' party weren't just a one-time thing, or... a bet or something.  
But then he realised that other people were bound to notice, and he got enough stick for being ginger, and short, and nerdy, and generally uncool; he didn't need more for being gay. Or bisexual. Or bicurious, or, or... whatever this turned out to be.  
Vic had come out a couple of years ago, when he was thirteen, everyone knew about him. He managed to escape that much bullying, because he was confident, and tall, and had all those friends to back him up.  
But they still didn't like him for it.  
He was glad his new boyfriend called himself Vic. Strangers assumed he'd said Vick, and he was dating a girl, 'like all normal boys should.'  
So when the time came to actually go on a date together, Martin took him to a place where he knew no-one would find out.   
Duxford Air Museum.

The man on the door nodded to Martin, surprised to see him for the second time that year, and his eyes flicked to the handsome boy beside him, and their hands intertwined.  
He said nothing, but one eyebrow slowly crept up his face into a high arch.  
Martin skipped through the museum, excitedly pointing out anything and everything, desperate for Vic to approve of his world.  
Vic nodded, and smiled, and tried to keep up with the frantic babbling information. It sounded quite interesting, at least. And Martin talking about planes was the cutest thing ever in the history of ever.  
But when they got to the Tiger Moth, he was totally silent.  
The curator was there, but when he saw Martin had company, he kept his distance.

"Look at her." he breathed.  
"Yes." said Vic, for even to the untrained eye, she was quite something.

 

The next year, Martin came alone again.  
"Your handsome friend?" asked the curator gently.  
"What? Oh, um, New Zealand."  
The man, his eyes now notably creased with age, nodded and turned back to the plane.  
"I mean, we're still... We're still... But y'know, his family had to move, so..." he trailed off, feeling that the curator didn't want to hear this much. After all, it didn't really concern him.  
The curator didn't mind how much he heard. He would listen as much as Martin would tell.  
Once again, Martin leaned right over the rail.  
Once again, he failed to touch her.


	4. Lucy

Her name was Lucy. They met in the Cadets.

The man on the door looked pleased for Martin as he nodded to him. It had been a while since he'd been here with company. A while being five years.  
And it was much better than with Vic, because instead of just listening to Martin ramble on with a faint smile, she joined in, talking and pointing together, not as keen as him, certainly, but keen enough.  
The round trip took longer because they had more to say, more in common, more to debate.   
By the time they got to the Tiger Moth herself, they could look through the large glass windows on the other side at the sun cloaking the snowy fields with dim orange light.

"Gorgeous." she said, slipping her hand into his.  
"Mm."  
He didn't know whether they were talking about the same thing, but he knew that she was right.  
And in that moment, her smile, her hair, her voice, her everything...  
She was perfect. Not everybody perfect, not one of those beautiful girls way out of Martin's league, not hot, or sexy, or glamorous...  
Martin perfect.  
And he hoped, and she hoped, and a pair of aging eyes in the corner hoped, and anyone who could've seen them then hoped, that they would stay that way forever.

The next year, he didn't even try to touch the plane, for fear of breaking his heart twice.


	5. 21st

"Back again, Tiger Moth boy?" smiled the curator.  
"Of course!"  
But Martin's smile was a little more forced.  
Again, the aging man didn't pry, yet Martin could tell he knew something was wrong.  
"It's, uh, it's my birthday."  
"Then, many happy returns!" he said, sounding faintly surprised at Martin's tone.  
"Nobody remembered."  
"Ah."  
"I mean, it's to be expected, I suppose. It's not like I have many friends to remember."  
"Family, though?"  
"Mum sent a card."  
"Well then, there you go. Not nobody."  
"Yeah, but it's Mum! Of course she remembers, it's her job!"  
"So, just because she has to makes it unimportant?"  
"Yes."  
"...Would a plane analogy help?"  
"They usually do."  
"It's a pilot's job to keep the plane in the air, correct?"  
"Yeah..."  
"So is keeping the plane in the air unimportant?"  
"Well,"  
"If the pilot didn't do his job, would it matter?"  
"Yes, everyone would die."  
"So him doing the things he should do, that's the difference between life and death?"  
"Yeah-"  
"If your mum didn't send you a card?"  
"I'd be really upset."  
"Exactly, Tigerboy. Don't overlook the little things. Sometimes, they're the only things that matter."  
Martin thought awhile, then slowly nodded.  
"Okay."  
"Okay?"

At that moment, someone walked in, and the conversation ended.  
He glanced around, and saw the somebody was Romeo, his flatmate since the day he left home, and pretty much best mate.  
"Romeo? What are you doing here? You think planes are dull, don't you?"  
"What? Oh, yes, they are, but I needed to see you."  
Martin frowned. They were just friends, weren't they? He didn't want to be anything else, not with Rommy.  
He was rummaging around in his bag, muttering to himself.  
"What do you mean, needed to see me?"  
He pulled out a small Tupperware box, and handed it to Martin.  
"There. Unless that's my lunch. If it's my lunch, give it back. "

It wasn't his lunch. It was a small, slightly squashed fairy cake with the words 'Happy birthday Captain' hastily scrawled on it in blue icing.  
"Best I could do, short notice." shrugged Romeo. "Is it okay?"  
"Yes. It's... perfect."  
"Now, don't get soppy on me, you hear me? It's just a cake. Just, y'know, a... a friendly reminder that you mean a lot to people, no matter how much it don't feel like it sometimes, alright? You've always got someone who cares. Even if it ain't you so much."  
Martin was struggling to hold in tears. Romeo was usually pretty fake, a smooth talking ladies' man, (well, and men's man,) with sidelines in magic tricks and crime. It was rare you heard his natural voice, even more so when it was expressing some kind of sentiment. This was a moment of trust.  
His thought train was interrupted by the usual cry of,  
"Now then, pub?" and the hand that pulled him away, despite all laughing protest. Such was his joy, he forgot to try and reach the plane, and the curator didn't try and remind him.


	6. Trixy

The man on the door nodded at Martin, a familiar sight to all staff by now. The woman beside him was taller than him, with long, blonde hair gushing over her shoulders. He was the most nervous he'd ever looked, like he couldn't believe it was actually happening, like he didn't feel he deserved her. The man on the door, however, got a strange hunch it was the other way around.

Martin showed her only the most interesting bits, while he tried very hard not to scoff at her ignorance. Indeed, she knew nothing of planes, and seemed quite plainly bored by the whole experience. But Martin, blinded in his affections, couldn't see it.

Just as they were nearing the end, she got a text, apologised, and trotted out of the museum as he stuttered his befuddled goodbyes. 

He didn't mention it to the curator. He didn't reach the plane, either.


	7. That year

He kept going, of course, every year going around to spot new exhibits, talk new topics, learn, and teach, and just to see his old favourites. But it was the visit four years later that he remembered.

He barely even noticed the man on the door's nod, ran straight through the whole museum, never pausing to admire anything, just ran, and ran, and ran, until he reached the end. And there he was, the curator, turning to see the frantic blur of orange now sliding down the wall in exhaustion.

"Martin? What's happened? Why-"  
"My-my-my-m-mm-my-"  
"What? Martin, what?"  
"M-m-my uh, my..."  
The curator was worried for a second, worried something awful had happened, that Martin was in shock,  
but when he saw his face, those bright, gleaming eyes, that wide, gaping smile, he quickly changed his mind.  
Martin shook his head, as if he couldn't get the words out, and pulled from his bag a cream-coloured, laminated sheet of card.

"What is it? Can I look?"  
He was afraid Martin's head would simply roll off his neck, the way he was nodding, so he took the sheet, and hurriedly read through what he now realised was a certificate.  
Slowly, his old, learned face adopted the same wild-eyed sheer look of delight that graced the younger man before him.  
"Is this? Can it be? Martin?"  
Suddenly, the blur of orange returned as he leapt to his feet and threw both his quivering arms around the man that had made it all possible.  
"Thank you," he sobbed into the old man's shoulder. "Thank you."  
He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn't have the words.  
The curator shook his head and smiled. No need. He knew what those words were.

"Thank yourself, Tigerboy. You've done this. No-one else."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as you've stuck with me until now, I thought you probably deserved a treat. If you're content with this as an ending, please feel free to treat it as one, though there may be more to this story yet. So here he is, the rare face of happy Martin on the best day of his life.


	8. The year he missed

The next year, there was no orange blur.  
The man on the door nodded to no-one, the staff went through each day touring the usual array of families and school trips, each secretly hoping that tomorrow their pilot would be home.  
The curator watched the Tiger Moth by himself.

Soon Christmas arrived, and then the new year, spring and summer came and went without a trace of a freckle.  
But at last, on a rainy day in November, two familiar eyes peered out from under a woolen hat at the museum he knew so well, and that knew him so well in return.

He gazed through glass boxes distantly, numbly, as if he didn't see their contents at all. He saw new displays without a flicker of interest crossing his weary face, and old ones with seemingly no joy.  
Martin never saw the Tiger Moth that year. A member of staff found him slumped among the RAF stuff at closing time with tears slowly drying on his cheeks. He looked up at the guide, Harry, through empty, dulling eyes.  
Harry hesitated. Professionally, what he should do was ask him to leave. But he'd looked so...  
He walked on, without saying anything. Perhaps he would come back at the end of his rounds.  
And that was how the curator found Martin, just sat there, alone.  
"Are you alright?"  
He said nothing.  
"What's happened?"  
Nothing.  
"Why weren't you here last year? We wondered where you'd gone!"  
A long silence, then,  
"Dad died."  
With much effort, the old man sat down beside Martin there on the floor.  
"I'm so sorry."  
He turned and looked at him. He stayed that way for a long time, then, in such a tiny movement as you could barely see it, he shook his head.  
The curator didn't know what it meant, or why Martin was so quiet, so hollow, not sobbing or seeking comfort, just still, just...  
And he didn't know why he hadn't come last year, for surely his beloved planes would've cheered him up.  
The younger man stood up, suddenly, pulled his bag over his shoulder, muttered  
"I should go. I've got work tomorrow."  
and walked towards the door.  
"What work?" called the curator.  
Martin stopped, dropped his head, sighed and whispered,  
"Flying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because do you realise how insecure he must've been when it happened if he could still feel about it a decade later  
> do you


End file.
